


Pirate, You Know

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, Oneshot, post-season 3 finale, smut ahoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season 3 finale; drunk and morose, Killian Jones reflects on where he went wrong with his love until he comes to the sudden realization (with a literal kick from a former bandit) that perhaps his assessment of the situation was in error. Contains the eff word. Like... a lot. Pirate, you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pirate, You Know

Even back when he was a proper gentleman, he had loved the word “fuck”. In his present situation, he deemed it proper and pertinent to begin a litany of it. _Fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuckery, fuckishness, bloody fucking buggering hell, just... fuck._

All this over a woman. Again! Only this time, it was different. So vastly, infinitesimally, horribly different. _Fuck_. At least with Milah there had been anger, nothing but pure, seething, frothing anger and a desire to do bodily harm to the cause. Now? Now he was simply sad. Sad and pathetic and wanting to weep. 

This time it was oh, so insufferably, horrifically different. _She_ was different.

So, Killian Jones decided to get good and drunk.

In fact, he could not remember a time when he had been quite so drunk, and believe you-me, his drinking tolerance was rather high. Pirate, you know. 

_Get up_ , he could hear her admonishing in his head. _Clean yourself off, you smell like debauchery_. She'd said that to him one time, after Neverland, when he'd been dwelling and moping and she'd needed him for something. _Lass_ , he'd slurred by way of reply, _leave me to my demons_. Then she'd kicked him lightly in the side, more of a nudge, really, and teased him to stand with one of her pert little smiles, so he'd done as she'd said.

He'd _always_ do as she said. Fuck, he'd do anything for that woman.

And yet she'd gone and left him. _Again_. After everything! After all he had done, after all he had given up. Zelena, fucking time portals, bloody fucking up the past and and and- he'd coaxed her magic back into her, _he_ did that! He, Captain Rutting Hook, had brought magic back to the Savior- hadn't he? Had he not taunted Hell and teased heaven and given up his ship and done bloody fucking _everything_ for Emma Swan, to get to her, to get through to her? Had he not?

Maybe he had not. Maybe he wasn't enough. All his life, he had never been enough. He had to change himself to take what he wanted all those years ago, and even that had not been enough. His brother (gods, Liam. Gods.) was never coming back, and maybe, probably, this one woman- _the_ one woman- was also never coming back.

So, he figured he'd drink a little. Then a lot. He wasn't precisely sure how much time had passed until the bloody woman's mother found him out by the docks, hidden behind some rotting barrels of nothing. 

He felt a kick to his ribs and raised his eyes, quirking up a corner of his mouth. Like mother, like daughter. Always kicking a pirate when he's down.

“Hook?” The princess seemed amused as he warily, blearily tried to fix her with his soberest expression. 

“Forgive me for not rising and bowing and scraping, highness,” he said, rather clearly, he thought, considering his sodden state. “I seem to have an affinity for the ground of late.”

“Of late?” Her chuckle made him smile unwillingly. She stuck her hand out, presumably to help him up, but he did not wish it. No, he wished to remain on the disgusting ground where he belonged.

He was not sure how long they remained thus, but after what may have been minutes but was probably seconds, the princess (Emma was a princess as well, but his princess no more) Snow shook his shoulder, roughly. 

“Hook? Hook!” 

“Bloody hell, woman. Leave me be!” he snarled with real anger, most of it directed at himself. He took no umbrage taking it out on her mother. He noted with satisfaction that she drew away, her lip curling in disgust.

“Hook. Hook, where is Emma? There's something weird going on in the forest, it's all frozen and... Hook. Hook! Why would she leave you like this?”

“Question of the hour, love. Of the fucking ages.” The princess made a sound of utter disgust at him and he thought to himself, _been there for days, m'lady_.

“Hook, get up. Where is she? I'll get her and she can help... tidy you up,” she finished primly. Killian belly-laughed at that, the first real amusement he'd felt in days, weeks; decades.

“Darling, she wouldn't help me were I being keel-hauled by my short and curlies.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Killian was suddenly very, terribly weary of the entire conversation, the entire realm. He groped around and sighed with relief when he heard the clink of metal on glass; reaching over to grasp it, he raised the bottle to his lips, pausing to speak before taking a deep swig.

“Emma.” The grit of her name going up and then down his throat nearly tore him asunder. “Is gone.”

The princess cocked her head to the side, her mouth slightly agape. He was surprised to realize that he read several expressions cross her face, much like her daughter's- from incredulity to confusion and dawning to startled, horrifying clarity.

“Where did she go?” she demanded on a whisper, and somewhere in the rum (whiskey, vodka, some horribly wonderful thing called tequila)-soaked stretches of his tired mind, an alarm sounded. The same one that tickled five seconds before Liam scratched himself, the same one that roared whenever the Crocodile was near.

“I- she's gone. She... she left me,” he croaked out, finally sitting up straight, the alarm and sudden worry piercing his entire form. Hadn't she? “She took the boy and-”

“Henry is with Regina. Charming and I have been taking turns sleeping and taking care of the baby, and we figured Emma was with _you_ this whole time. I- Hook, where _is_ she?” the princess demanded, leaning down to grasp the collar of his coat and shake him roughly. “Where is my daughter? Did you two fight? What did you do?”

“Nothing, I-” He swiped at his mouth with the back of his good hand, his brow clamping down on his face and his thoughts. Several things flurried through his brain, stirring up the alcohol and self-pity into a froth, bright bubbles of new thoughts sparkling on the surface. Emma would _never_ leave her boy behind. But that means- she hadn't left?

Hope is a terrible, wonderful thing. For the entirety of the past two years, hope had been budding in his brain, small tendrils at first, encouraged by the casual warm smile or what he thought at the time to be glances full of yearning and the occasional lusty once-overs. Hope, that damned thing, had made him... light. Unencumbered. And desperate.

As Snow's frightened face loomed over him, willing him to rise, he felt new hope explode in his chest. The only thing that would make Snow White look in such a way is if one of those she loved was in danger. The gentleman in him cringed at the happiness he felt in her despair; the lover in him roared in triumph. Perhaps Swan hadn't left him, after all? But then- where the hell was she?

Overwhelming dread sliced through his hopeful thoughts, sharp enough to force him up and lurching into the princess. Her hands scrabbled, catching him, lifting him, and he grimaced at the fleeting thought that this woman was the source and reason for Emma's strength.

Emma.

Oh, gods. He had to find her. What if- what if some new strife had gotten to her, and he had been too busy feeling sorry for himself to know about it?

“Tell me,” he groaned. “What day is it?”

“What day is...” she trailed off weakly. “Wednesday? Why?”

That did not help. He shook his head, trying to clear the alcohol-soaked haze. “How long since... we returned from the portal?”

“Four days.”

“Four...” He swiped at his mouth again, wishing he had cool water to wash out the taste of utter degeneracy and desperation. Four days since they had returned, had (he'd thought?) come to an understanding, had kissed. That kiss...

“Hook. Hook! What are we going to do? When was the last time you saw her? What happened? Did you two fight, did you- no. _No_. There is no _way_ she took off again, I thought everything was resolved!” The princess was shaking him, trying to get through, trying to will understanding or even a real reaction into the drunk damned pirate. He reached out to scratch behind his ear with his hook, knowing the sharp pierce of metal on skin would do something- give him pain, make him bleed, wake him the fuck up. And it worked.

“Right. Right. We did _not_ fight,” he said, his voice clearer than it had been in days. “There- at Granny's, after Marian and the Queen-”

“Regina,” the princess muttered, her tone grim.

“After Emma...” He swallowed twice after saying her name. “...did that... she was upset. We were leaving, merely walking around. I tried my best to comfort her, but she did not wish to be comforted.” He closed his eyes, remembering how upset she had been, inconsolable, really. The two of them wandering around the town, she occasionally bringing her hand to her mouth and heaving a large breath. His one-armed embraces were sometimes accepted, sometimes shrugged off. Eventually, she muttered something about needing to be alone to think, and he had gone and started drinking, figuring she would be much better able to converse after clearing her head a bit, as always.

The next morning, he waited. And waited. Then he started wondering if she were perhaps waiting for him to come to her, so he'd gone to the room she'd decided to take at Granny's in lieu of the new baby. And found... nothing. No Emma, no Henry. No one. Nothing missing, but it would not be the first time she had simply... left. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach; she was no longer there.

And then he'd gone on a sort of instantaneous, dizzying spiral of loss acceptance, because neither Killian Jones nor Captain Hook ever got what he wanted. Love, vengeance, certain people. Alcohol was an easy enough way to mask that pain- he ought to know, he'd been employing its violently soothing effects for centuries. He didn't remember much once he'd started drinking except stumbling and possibly saying something deliriously rude to one of the fairies in his quest for yet another bottle.

Four days. If she really hadn't left him... but she would never leave Henry behind...

Then something _had_ happened to her.

Finally. Something good was fucking happening. She hadn't left. Church bells should sound! Cannons should fire off starboard!

But where the fuck was she?

Right.

He had to find Emma. He had to plan. This was good, this was excellent- he always fared better as a man of action. Pirate, you know.

“Princess,” he said with a grin, for his head was suddenly quite right. “Let's go find your daughter.”

They discussed the likely offenders of wrong-doing; it was decided that the Crocodile (“Mr. Gold,” pah) was most likely too busy with his new bride, and Killian felt it unlikely he would offer assistance, anyway. With a sinking feeling, he and the princess came to the conclusion at much the same time that the only real offender could be the Queen. Emma had, after all, destroyed Regina's chance at happiness. _Just as the two were coming to an accord_ , he thought ruefully.

“I'll talk to her,” the princess offered, and Killian did not bother attempting to hide his smirk.

“Highness? Begging your pardon, but I doubt the Queen would piss on you were you afire.” The princess looked at once amused, disgusted, and confused at that. “Your daughter mirroring your past actions ringing any bells?” She grimaced and nodded thoughtfully.

“I guess you're the lesser of two evils, then?” He returned her sudden grin.

“This time, certainly,” he said, forcing joviality, but the dread was returning in full measure. There was no limit to the Queen's revenges, petty or no, and he knew- Emma knew, Snow White knew, _everyone_ knew- in this instance, the Queen was justified, however unmeant Emma's actions, in her rage.

He _would_ find her. He always did.

With each step toward the Queen's abode his dread deepened, but the old hope and longing was returning along with it, a curious blend of emotion curling around in his belly, as good a sobering restorative as any potion or remedy. 

Emma hadn't left him. 

Perhaps this had all been some horrible error in happenstance.

 _Perhaps she was dead._ Dread overtook the hope for one terrifying moment. He tamped it down, “manned up,” as Leroy was wont to say. He'd _know_ if she was dead. He was too full of confusing thoughts and emotions for her to be dead. 

Were she dead, he'd be dead inside. Hope would not exist.

Fifteen minutes later found the princess pacing in front of the Queen's stately but small manor and Killian nearly running up the paved walkway. He refrained from marring the white perfection of the door with his hook, instead raising his hand to knock just as it jerked open.

The Queen stood there, looking utterly desolate, miserable, and pissed. Not pissed as in this realm's word for anger (although there was that, as well), but drunk as hell. Like him yesterday or this morning or three-and-a-half days ago.

“Where is-” he began to demand, but with a flick of her fingers, he felt a blast of heat hit his chest. _Right, then. Magical bitch. Let's do this._

“Go away, you swaggering _sonuvabitch_ ,” she snarled before attempting to slam the door, but he finally gave in to temptation and sank his hook right into the eye hole with a satisfying _thunk_ and _crunch_. He yanked down, white paint and wood splintering and scattering to the marble tile in the foyer. In one smooth movement, his arm pushed out and up, his hook disengaging, the door swinging wide with such force that it shook the very foundation of the house (or so he hoped).

“Your majesty,” he said, turning swiftly and giving her the steadiest, courtliest bow in his arsenal while never taking his eyes off her wary and angry face. “I've come to see about my lady.”

“Fuck your lady, pirate,” she sneered. “I'm sure that's all you've been doing for days, anyway. About time, really. I've had it with watching you two assholes being all 'oh, denial' and 'I love you' eyes and panting after each other. It's disgusting. Go get a room and leave the rest of us to our loveless lives.” His conscience pricked at that for one moment, her palpable misery too similar to what he had endured for... the entire time he had known Emma Swan, actually. 

Emma's countenance- that sweet look of disbelieving yearning- flashed in his mind, and with that, his mission returned to the forefront, fixing his face in what he knew was a menacing glare. The Queen's eyes widened, and he felt a spark in the air- the one that Henry had once referred to as electric shock- the one that indicated magic was simmering, about to be unleashed in full force. The Queen's full force of magic was a worrisome thought, indeed. But whatever did she mean about he and Emma... doing _that_ for days, as if she were unaware aught was amiss? Was she not the culprit in the disappearance?

“Regina,” he said gruffly, forcing himself to use her name in an attempt to get through to the angry, magical misery shimmering around her. “What the bloody hell are you on about?” Her lips pressed into a firm line and she took a step forward.

“Your savior,” she sneered. “I presume you're here to bitch at me for my little... slip in composure. A lapse in judgment due to her shitty, shitty thoughtlessness. It won't happen again. I have... I have reasons to behave. I...” She looked so forlorn that for a moment, he felt sorry again. But... slip in composure? What on earth-?

“What do you mean, y'Majesty? What lapse in judgment?” His voice was low and threatening as advanced on her, tilting his head down to meet her frosty gaze head-on. It felt good, his body spurring to action without voluntary thought; the way his spine stiffened, his leg muscles bunching in preparation. Hook arm slightly out and poised to strike, his good hand slipping to his hip for his cutlass (or this time, a dagger he sometimes kept at his back). Intellectually, he knew he was little match for the force of angry magic coalescing in front of him, but his body acted nonetheless. It always would where his love was concerned.

The Queen, of course, was the picture of indifference. She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue, whirling around and stumbling somewhat into a side table before reaching out for a snifter of some brown liquid. She turned back to face him once again and tossed the entire drink back with a practiced flick of her wrist. Leaning against the table for support, she fumbled behind herself for the crystal decanter that promised more oblivion. As she poured herself another, she looked down at her glass and spoke to the whiskey or brandy or whatever it was.

“Oh, you know. The sleeping curse. What does it matter, _pirate_ ,” she said, spitting on the word as if it were an invective. Her following words were whispered, and slightly broken. “You and your little True Love have finally made shit happen. Good. Excellent. I'm so glad for you two. So, you kissed her out of her sleeping curse. I knew you would. Whatever. Go... be together. And leave me the hell alone.”

Approximately fifteen thoughts clamored in Killian's mind during the Queen's confession. First and foremost was the wonderment of _Emma did not fucking leave him_. The rest of his scattered thinking was superlative, really. That was the only thing that mattered. Triumph roared through him, beating his innards in a satisfying, painfully glorious infusion of light and feeling. His chest expanded with overjoyed air. 

The fact that the Evil fucking Queen had cursed his beloved with a fucking sleeping curse should have angered him enough to make the oceans surge. Oddly, it didn't. He was far too fixated on _she hadn't left him_. It made him happily arrogant and arrogantly happy. He relaxed his form, continuing his advance on Regina, a new swagger twisting his hips from side to side. She looked confused, fixing him with a wary glare. Reaching out, he snatched the snifter of liquid away from her and tossed it back himself in one large, satisfying gulp. Ah, whiskey, then. Good. Brandy was far too sedate for his current state. He wished to be fortified and tense.

“Give me that!” she snapped, grabbing the glass from his grasp. He allowed it. Clucking in disgust once again, she used the hem of her shiny shirt to swipe at the rim, as if she would contract some disease from him. As if the magical bitch couldn't whip up some antidote in a trice.

“Your Majesty,” he drawled. “Tell me where you left her.”

“What?” she said curtly, dropping the glass on the table with a clatter. 

“Emma,” he growled between clenched teeth. Now that his confidence was returning, his patience was leaving in equal measures. “Where is she?”

The Queen stared at him for several moments, and he actually witnessed the moment comprehension dawned in her eyes. With dismay, he also saw a gleam of glee; at what, he was unsure, and his confidence ebbed slightly.

“Are you telling me you didn't... oh. Oh! Oh, you dumb fucking _marauder_!” Her laugh was terrible, and while he had always held the Queen with a sort of detached wariness, he had never felt truly frightened of her until this moment. Her zeal was a little too triumphant for his liking. 

“Pirate, you know. Marauder sounds so... tawdry.”

“Mm, yes. Let's argue semantics here, you degenerate smuggler. So, let me get this straight. Your lady, your fucking _savior_ goes and unknowingly ruins my life, and in return I exact a _tiny_ piece of vengeance on her that was utterly, easily remedied... and you, what? Couldn't find her, so you tucked tail and ran? What, did you think she left you?”

His silence was the only answer he had to give. Amazing, really, how 300 years of villainy fell overboard the moment he thought he'd lost. _What you do to me, Swan_.

No, that was quite enough of that unhelpful thinking. Killian grew weary, so weary of this entire debacle. A calmness softened his spine. He leaned forward until his alcohol-soaked breaths mingled with hers.

“Tell me where she is. Please.”

It was the please that did it. There must have been something in his eyes- not a threat, nor the promise of violence. A simple request. Perhaps the Queen had a working heart, after all, for he saw the moment her ire left and was replaced with sardonic, unwilling amusement.

“Relax, pirate. She's at Granny's. She came to see me after... after. I was... I was getting some things from...” She swallowed and took a breath before continuing. “Robin took Roland and his wife and... they said something about needing to be away. So, I was there, and- anyway. Ms. Swan came and tried to talk to me. To apologize,” she said on a sigh. “And I- I didn't... I had some on me. The sleeping curse. Insurance, in case Zelena- well.” She straightened, a defensive look taking over her face. “Look. I'm not proud of it. I'm not. I just- you daft fucking pirate, I _really_ thought you would be there to wake her up! You're much denser than my initial estimation of you.” She stood up to her full height, fixing him with the regal glare at which she excelled (“royal bitchface,” Emma called it). 

Despite the royal bitchface, Killian could see her for what she was- a sad lady in desperate need of comfort; not that he would provide that. However- the knowledge that this woman, this woman who always planned four steps ahead and included contingencies- well. She believed True Love's Kiss would save the day. It was touching, really. Startling. Fucking _fantastic_. His sudden lightening of spirits put him in charity with her, and for the first time, he felt real sympathy for the Queen. Instead of drawing out the moment and getting even as he once would have done, he did something he usually did only for Emma- offered a small piece of solace with his words.

“I won't tell Henry what you did.”

The stunned look on her face before he turned and swaggered off made him smirk. As he approached the door, his satisfaction grew at the sight of the ugly, hook-marred paint on it. He slammed it behind him and took off running for Granny's.

“Hook! Hook! Did she tell you? Do you know where Emma is? Should I go get David? Hook? Hook!” As he'd forgotten Emma's mother was there waiting, he ignored the princess as he ran, then realized she would only follow him. He stopped and jogged back to her, impatience warring with his need to be polite.

“All is well. She'll be fine. I've got this,” he said, attempting a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but she simply looked at him like his hand had grown back. Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he offered more explanation. “She isn't hurt, she's sleeping. You know.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully, tilting his head toward the Queen's door. The princess's eyes widened with understanding.

“The sleeping curse?” she whispered. “But- but she- oh. Oh. Oh!” The princess's hands vacillated between covering her mouth and pointing at Killian. “You! You can-”

“We shall see, shan't we?” he said jovially, but there must have been uncertainty in his eyes, for the princess reached out to put her hand on his chest.

“Go, Killian. Go wake up our girl.”

He nodded and smiled tightly, then turned and ran again.

It took him less than ten minutes to get to Granny's. As he rushed up the stairs, his tumbled, relieved thoughts began to swirl, making him ease his pace. What if she were never to wake? What would he do? Would he be able to continue on if his kiss were not reciprocated?

 _Shut your gob, Jones_.

The Thief's former room was locked, but he picked his way in easily. Pirate, you know.

...And there she was. 

He let out a slow, steady stream of grateful, murmured curses, many of them offers of supplication to the gods that the Queen had not prevaricated. Emma was, indeed, sleeping. He had seen her in repose before, and he noted with wry amusement that she still did not appear the picturesque princess in the storybooks with her hair just-so, hands clasped at her breast, a look of serene beauty and a faint smile on her lips. No, his Swan looked like a troubled child in slumber, legs sprawled out, arms straight at her sides, hair twisted and tangled behind her head. There was a frown marring the perfection of her face, the slight downturn of her mouth exaggerated in unease. His own face mirrored hers; was her rest punctuated with bad dreams? Would his kiss have any effect?

He _hated_ his uncertainty.

 _Come now, Jones. Pirate of action_. 

“I'm sorry it took me so long, love,” he whispered.

He blew out a breath and became aware of something that had not bothered him for days; he needed to bathe something awful. Gods, imagine being awakened from the-gods-know-what sort of fiery other-realm to a greasy, whiskey-and-rum soaked pirate in dire need of a shave?

He knew he was stalling. But, well. He wasn't going to herald her return to consciousness (and to him) with his filth. Bad form, you know. Even for a pirate. 

Spying a ewer of water and a towel of dubious origin, he splashed cold water on his face and hissed at the sharp sting while welcoming it. Tooth cleanser was also available, but he merely squeezed it into his mouth and swished it around, wishing for his usual chalk. He set about performing his ablutions quickly, being reminded of a time when he'd been without cleanliness for weeks at a time. That was then, however; this realm, this world was so different. He felt those pangs that he did not belong, but when he glanced over at the woman resting fitfully, his thoughts cleared. 

He could and would endure anything for her. Already had, really.

_Get to it, Jones._

Right, then.

Taking a fortifying breath, he advanced on the bed, wondering whether it would work. True Love's Kiss. It could break any curse. 

If it was mutual.

He knelt next to the bed, leaning over to brush a stray wisp of hair from her brow. She did not move at his touch; he took the moment to caress her face, brushing the back of his hand across her cheek.

He leant in and grimaced, his coat feeling rather smothering. He shrugged it off quickly, dropping it behind him, barely registering the soft clunk as it hit the floor. He leaned in again, his fingertips brushing Emma's neck, his thumb lightly playing across her collarbone. Closing his eyes and sending a brief but fervent plea to every god he knew, he closed the distance, opening his eyes a crack so he could see her face. Exhaled softly; registered how his breath made her eyelashes flutter but not the lids. Pressed his lips firmly to hers. Please. _Please, be reciprocated._

Small, but there. Movement. Gods dammit, gods, gods, gods, _gods_. It worked. Holy bleeding, fucking hell, it _worked_.

Reciprocated.

“Killian?” 

Emma.

“Killian, what are you- _Regina_ ,” she breathed out, and he could tell as he looked into her face that she knew what had happened, could remember. Her eyes looked haunted and a pucker of worry tucked into his mind, wondering where she had been the entirety of her four days' (four days!) worth of sleep. 

He murmured, just noises, really, soft sounds of comfort, resisting the urge to check her entire body for unseen injury and instead focusing on the fact that she was here and he was here; they were here, they were together, they were... 

“Killian, what did... Regina, she- she fucking dosed me!” Her eyes widened as he sat up, her hand covering her mouth. He wanted to chuckle at her words, at the expressions from this world that he only found delightful when coming from her lips. The shocked look on her face prevented the laughter.

“You woke me up.”

“Aye,” he nodded once, decisively.

“With a kiss.”

“Aye, lass.”

“Oh,” she said, too stunned to continue. They looked at each other then, he wary, she so surprised it was almost comical. Almost. Unable to bear it anymore, Killian began to do something he abhorred. He began to babble.

“It took me a few days to find you. I didn't know, you see. I hope you forgive me, love. I thought-- I thought. Well, no matter what I thought. You were nowhere to be found, and I was inebriated to the point of stupidity, really. Your mother found me, and kicked me, quite literally, I assure you. I feel bad for your father, he must have a devil of a time-”

“Hook. Hook. Killian, slow down. _What_ did you think? What do you mean, you couldn't find me? But... your room is right down the hall from here, did you really not know I was in here? Killian?” She was starting to rouse herself, stretching her neck from side to side. He was in a panic now; it all seemed so ridiculous, and he felt the heavy weight of guilt descend upon his shoulders. 

After all of his internal misery over how Emma could not possibly love him- he had lost faith in her. What kind of a man was he?

The kind who trusted only himself. Pirate, you know.

Only now, he had proof before his eyes that he was wrong. 

Wise words of seizing the day and not squandering opportunities washed through and over him. _Fuck it_ , he thought. Here before him is _the_ opportunity, the _only_ thing worth seizing.

He grinned at the thought.

“What?” she asked, laughing in response to his smile, her eyes finally losing the troubled ghost of lengthy slumber and lighting up with that inner fire that so entranced him. “What the hell is so funny? Oh man, I've gotta go find Regina and kill her, I can't _believe_ she gave me magical roofies!”

“Magical what?” he laughed, feeling giddy all the way down to his toes. 

“I'm gonna go give that woman my own royal bitchface. She thinks she can just fuck with us like this? _Really?_ Oh my God, did she- like, oh shit. Did she do this to put the whammy on me, or what? What the hell was she _thinking_?” Emma was trying to rise but her limbs did not wish to accommodate her anger. Her knees buckled and she fell back on the bed, Killian reaching out to steady her and laugh at her.

Eyes still dancing, he joined her on the bed, sitting so he could rest his arm at her back. 

“Give her quarter, Swan. She meant no lasting harm; she, uh- she...” He had to clear his throat twice, suddenly nervous to say the words aloud.

“She...” Emma looked impatient, waving her hand between their faces for him to continue. Smiling ruefully, he ducked his head and blinked several times before raising his eyes to gaze into hers fully.

“She claims it was a slip in composure, that she meant no true ill-will. That she figured I could wake you. With...”

“...a kiss,” she finished for him, her gaze upon his, steady and unblinking.

“Aye.”

“I see.” He could feel it for a moment, her indecision, and he held his breath in anticipation, deciding to wait and see. Whether she would draw away from it, from this, from him, from _them_. Whether she would run. In truth, this time. 

He needn't have worried. With a small quirk of her mouth she was smiling and then leaning and then kissing and yes, gods, _yes_ , this was so _good_. 

“Emma,” he breathed against her, and she brushed her smile against his mouth. 

She hummed into his lips and he remembered this, remembered the soft feel of her warmth. She reached up, placing her palm to his face. With a sigh and a smile, he breathed into her open mouth.

“You smell like spearmint,” she said softly. He grinned once again; he was simply unable to help himself. She was accepting him, accepting this; he would grin about it for 300 more years.

“Yes, the Thief left behind some tooth cleaner,” he said, leaning in to nose behind her ear, breathing in the intoxicating scent of warm, sleepy woman. “I was... less than pleasant-smelling. Four days of drinking does that to a man.” Her answering throaty laugh sent a thrill of heat straight to his groin.

“You went on a bender over me?” Her voice still held traces of laughter, but there was a new element this time- concern. He could feel her brow furrowing as she leaned in, pressing another kiss right at the corner of his jaw. His breath hitched, his pants felt immeasurably tighter, and the room seemed to grow quite warmer.

“I can't believe you thought I left,” she sighed, sliding one hand up his chest. He could feel her fingertips playing idly with the collar of his shirt. “But I guess I get it. I'm not exactly an over-sharer, and it's not like we got to talk, what with me fucking up once again. And it's kinda in character for me to run, so.” She gulped, taking a large breath. Looking down and seeing a mass of tangled blonde, he held his breath- at her stumbled explanation, at her fingers reaching beneath his shirt to toy with the skin there, at her. Always at her. He wondered whether he had a lifetime of holding his breath in wonder whenever he paused to look at her to look forward to.

At least, he bloody well hoped so.

“Hush, love,” he said gently when she took another shuddering breath. “You didn't fuck up. You saved a damsel in distress. Hero, remember?” He bent his head toward her, kissing the insouciance of her answering arched eyebrow. “I'm the blackguard who let you sleep these four days. _I'm the fuck-up_. Pirate, you know.”

“Well,” she said, sitting up but allowing his continued embrace. “My pirate now.”

“Aye,” he whispered, utterly undone.

“To do with as I please.”

“Aye.”

“Whenever I want.”

“Yes.”

“ _Wherever_ I want.”

“Mm hmm.”

“I- oh. Oh my _God_.” His mind had been wandering into vaguely (graphically, somewhat disturbingly) lascivious directions the lower her voice had registered in timbre with her teasing speech. His lusty thoughts were not new, but he was pulled from his bawdy fantasy-becoming-reality by the horror in her voice.

“What is it, Emma?” he murmured, nosing along her neck and pressing a kiss just below her ear lobe.

“I- oh God. Morning breath. I've got morning breath! Four days' worth of it! Shit, no. No. We are not gonna- Hook. Killian, stop that!” she exclaimed, somewhat exasperated. At what, he did not know. He had not precisely been attending.

“Wha-?”

“Get off. I need to shower.” She pushed him away- gently, mind- and moved from his embrace, pressing her palms to the mattress and swinging her legs to the side of the bed.

Killian had seen many, many things in his life. Many women, in and out of various ensembles, positions, situations. He had experienced and fantasized about- well, just about every woman he had ever chanced upon in every realm for centuries, this one making an appearance more than any other.

However- _nothing_ could compare to the utterly devastating image he currently conjured whilst picturing Emma bathing.

Gods.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound smarmy, but the strain in his voice, he feared, made him sound more like Charming than Hook. “Need a hand with that, love? Or perhaps a hook?”

She smiled wryly and shook her head. “Later. Shower first.”

“You know, I find myself unused to the bathing methods of Storybrooke, and I could certainly use your help navigating the waters-”

“Forget it, pirate,” she said flatly. “Let me get clean for you.”

“Not too clean, I hope.”

“Well,” she said, pretending to ponder his request. “Something tells me that even showering will never get me clean when it comes to you.”

Was she flirting with him? Without attached insult? How utterly delightful.

He walked over to her, not sure what his next maneuver would be but knowing he had to be near. She smiled, big and full, something he wanted to see over and over again and again; he had to quell a surge of sensation, knowing that she was not inviting more just yet. 

She took a step backward toward the door, seemingly unable to turn away from him. Pursing her lips, she regarded him for a moment before seeming to come to a decision. 

“I- I think I should go shower, then we should... talk. Why don't you give me a half hour, then come to my room?” She looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“And then we'll... talk.” He wasn't disappointed; quite the contrary. He advanced on her, not menacing, not inviting; simply to be near. He leaned forward until he knew his whiskers were brushing her cheek. He whispered across her ear, “I shall count the minutes.” As he straightened his form, he smirked at the slightly dazed look in her eye.

“Yeah... thirty of 'em. Just... yeah.” Before he could so much as respond with a witty comeback, she was fumbling behind her for the doorknob and escaping out the door, a strange mixture of panic and anticipation on her face.

One half-hour. What was thirty minutes to a man who'd survived for three centuries?

An eternity, as it turns out. He stared at the door blankly once she'd left, wondering what he would do with himself, when it occurred to him that he ought give himself a thorough cleansing as well. 

Returning to his own overly decorated room, Killian entered the shower and made a perfunctory show, grateful for this particular modern convenience.

Then his mind- his overly fruitful, dashedly detailed mind began to _picture_. 

Was she using the same soap as he, or did she have something else, whatever it was that made her skin remind him of a cake he'd once pilfered from the basket of some highborn lady's maid on one of his jaunts inland? Buttery and sugary it had been, and still warm. Emma's skin reminded him of that delectable bit of cake. He had savored it for over an hour, only nibbling when he would start to forget, thinking it could not possibly be as good as he remembered, then he would wrap his lips around the edges, opening his mouth wide and pressing his tongue into the crumbs.

Perhaps he ought make the water colder.

He realized he had been standing there with his head bent and one palm pressed to the cold tile wall, the water washing away the booze and filth and allowing the lusty thoughts free reign. Emma, soapy. Rivulets of water running down and between places. Pink skin rubbed raw. He could picture her frantically scrubbing away her perceived filth (truly, he had noticed nothing, but then again, he was not precisely focusing on whether she was that sort of dirty). 

He had to finish. Cleaning.

Hastily, he rinsed and toweled off, discarding the notion of shaving. That would certainly cut into his half hour time frame. He pulled on another, slightly cleaner pair of pants and one of those tee shirt things he'd procured somewhere (Charming? Neal, perhaps? No, don't think of Neal) and felt marginally cleaner but oddly naked without the layers to which he had become accustomed over the years. Ah, well. Were he to make a go of it in this realm, he supposed he would need to get used to the strange lighter clothing they all seemed to enjoy.

How long had it been? Felt like hours. Scraping his fingers through his hair, he shoved into his boots and made for Emma's room.

“Come in,” she called out at his soft knock. He inhaled deep and entered the room with what he hoped was a natural smile. 

Of course, he felt anything but natural. Then he saw her sitting on her bed, wrapped in some sort of fuzzy dressing gown with a beatific smile on her face, and it all fell into place.

A thousand innuendos filtered through his mind, most of them _doubles entendres_ on either of them being far too dirty for true cleanliness, but he did not utter a one. He was too nervous, too _aroused_ to comment.

Emma was running a brush through her hair and smiling softly, beaming at him. She had no paint on her face and he smiled. She needed none; she was always _her_ , no matter the adornments.

“Hi,” she said softly. She laid her brush on the night stand and patted the counterpane next to her. He sat down... and had no idea what to say. What was the proper procedure, he wondered. Was he to woo her? Offer lovely compliments, tell her that she absolutely glowed and was so beautiful that he was having trouble taking complete breaths? That he had been filled with such despair when he thought she'd left that the only way for him to accept it was to drown his sorrow in drink first then possibly the sea later? Ought he to say-

“Killian,” she breathed, and when he turned to open his mouth, fully intending on making the moment perfect and lasting, she reached out. Her palms framed his face, her fingertips pressing into his hair. 

“Emma,” he breathed back, and this was good, but they were supposed to talk, were supposed to communicate- but then she was kissing and that was communication of the best sort, tongues making shapes that ought to form words but molded sensation instead, warm and mint and Emma and that infernal, delicious cake smell.

“Love,” he panted and dammit, no, he really did wish to speak to her now, this was so _much_ and if they did not slow their pace he would be spending in her inside of five minutes and it had to _last_ , he had to- “Emma, oughtn't we to-”

“Later,” she breathed. Right, then. As the lady wishes.

What neither the lady nor he wished was the blasted pounding on the door that made them spring apart. 

“Bloody fucking-”

“Emma! Hook! Get off each other and open this door _right now._ ” Regina. Excellent, just bloody fantastic. Killian eyed Emma, still in his arms, her damp hair fisted in his fingers. She appeared confused for a moment, then her eyes narrowed and he felt the electric current again- only when coming from her, it was hot and surging toward the lower half of his body.

“Regina,” she muttered, her voice full of steel. “I got this. You-- don't go anywhere.”

“Wasn't planning on it, love,” he murmured, tugging on her hair twice before letting go. She heaved herself to standing, straightening her spine and rolling her shoulders back a few times before opening the door. He smiled with smug pride when she put her hand out, as if poising to use magic. She opened the door, quick and wide, lifting her arm to strike if need be.

“Oh, good. You're- not dressed. Get dressed. Shit is happening.” The Queen's voice was brusque, authoritative and full of casual dismissal, as ever. She brushed past Emma into the room, eying him with a mixture of disdain and amusement. “And the pirate. Well, I see I was right. Now, I don't want to see you two any more than you want to see me, but let's put aside our petty squabbles, shall we? A new villain has arrived, and it seems to be a good one. Let's-”

“Regina?” Emma said, eyebrows arched, her voice cool and insolent. “Get the fuck out.”

“Ms. Swan, I'm here to-”

“I really don't give a fuck. Get out.”

“Really, this is hardly-” The Queen's hair was blown back as a blast of magical something hit her. She took a step back, looking stunned for a mere moment. Then her deep red lips curled into a look of wicked glee and, were he not mistaken, a small bit of pride.

“Ooh,” she purred, her brows meeting, making her look impressed. “Kitten's got claws.” Killian finally stepped forward, moving between the two. The Queen's eyes flicked over him, distaste plainly evident on her face. “And here's kitten's playmate, protecting his pussy.”

“Your majesty,” he sighed, utterly tired of everything. He moved toward Emma, swelling when she unconsciously moved toward him until their arms were flush with each other. “What, in the name of the gods, do you fucking want?” The Queen quirked up a corner of her mouth and regarded the two of them, her head swaying lazily as she took them in as a unit.

Sighing, she spoke in her usual condescending drawl. “I'll spare you the details. I'm not here to _do_ anything. I ran into Snow and Charming. Shit is going down in the forest. We've all been so... occupied lately, that it seems to have escaped everyone's notice that the forest has frozen over. My guess?” Her eyes scanned the two of them from head to toe and a sneer curled her lip. “You two idiots brought back more from the past than mutual understanding and horniness.”

Killian's brow furrowed, and he could feel that Emma was still tense, poised and ready to strike if need be. He chanced a glance at her, still keeping his eye on the Queen. He saw utter fury and tremulous worry weighing her brow.

“Well? Let's go! I could use a good fight, especially if it's an ice witch.” The Queen made for the door, and Killian was proud when Emma did not so much as flinch. Regina sighed heavily, turning when her hand was on the knob. “Your parents are getting weapons and back-up and, I don't know. A hairdryer. Henry's at my house. So- shall we?”

Emma shook her head, her hair splaying across his arm. He tipped her jaw with his good hand, peering into her face.

“Emma?” he said softly. “You don't have to go. You were asleep for days. I can see to this. You stay here.” She looked at him, her lips trembling, but there was fire in her eyes and anger shimmering beneath her skin- the kind he assumed meant she was about to be incandescently furious at him.

“I don't need more rest, I need to go figure out what the hell she's talking about.”

“Yes, but-”

“But nothing! Don't think that just because we're- we're whatever we are that you can start ordering me around!”

“I was hardly ordering you around, love. I was simply suggesting-”

“That I was damseling and in need of a protective male to see to my safety.”

“Oh, but you do your own saving. Don't think I've forgotten.”

“You got that right. I don't need you and your male arrogance telling me how to get things done.”

“You are being utterly ridiculous.”

“And you're being an asshole.”

“Wonderful. What wonderfully independent women this realm possesses. I should've plundered this world and her treasures ages ago.”

“What a pirate-y thing to say.” That one stung. With exasperation, he took a step backward and breathed in deep, silently willing patience for both him and Emma.

“Love, you ought best learn the difference between a pirate defiling a wench and a gentleman wishing to see to his lady.”

“Ha! My ass. Which are you right now- the defiling pirate or the friggin' gentleman?”

“For you, darling? Always both.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but no words came. Stunned, she pressed her lips together in a look of disapproval, but her eyes glowed with shining mirth.

“Ha! Round one to the pirate.”

“A-ha! You admit to being the pirate!”

“I'm always a pirate, love.”

“I thought you were _my_ pirate.”

“Oh Jesus, seriously? I am going to vomit. Right now. All over the both of you. Repeatedly.”

Both Killian and Emma turned in shock, having completely forgotten the Queen's presence. 

“This is cute and all, but can we please go defeat Frosty the Snow Bitch now? I have some quality drinking to catch up on. Not to mention I never want to think about the sexual tension I just witnessed, never again. Here, put this on,” the Queen said, grabbing a stray set of trousers and a sweater and throwing them at Emma. “I'll be in the forest, laying shit to waste. Whether you two join me is up to your libidos.” With that, she sashayed out the door, slamming it behind her.

“Sorry,” Emma mumbled after a few moments of awkward silence. 

“No, no,” Killian sighed, scrubbing his hand down his face. “It is I who should be sorry. You're right. Far be it from me to dictate how you do things. Come, let's not squabble. I'll... I'll go.” He stepped toward her carefully, leaning in to kiss next to her ear. “Forgive me?”

“There's nothing to forgive,” she sighed, leaning into him. “Me, overreacting again. Sorry.” He closed his eyes and despite the tension of a few moments ago, he smiled happily. The Emma of a month ago would have drawn away, shut down; it seemed that once his Swan allowed the truth of them in, she accepted it fully. Good. He'd hate to have to win her over again and again.

Not that he would stop doing that, no; he would simply know from now on that there was always hope. He chose to believe that and to believe in her.

Always had, come to think on it.

Killian left to find his coat (he'd left it in the Thief's room) and then waited for Emma outside her room, impatiently tapping a rhythm-less beat on the wall with his hook. She eventually joined him, and they eventually made for the edges of the forest, joining the Queen, the Charmings, the Crocodile and his lady librarian, and other myriad denizens of Storybrooke. In which, he supposed, he was now considered one of the ranks.

**xxxxx**

“Never again. _Never_ fucking again. I am _not_ going out there. It's fucking June! Snow in June! This is bullshit. Utter, serious horseshit. I am never gonna be warm again, I swear to God.”

“Come, lass. I'll warm you up right quick.”

They were trudging up the stairs, utterly miserable and dripping with melting ice. Three days and some humiliating defeats had the entire town on high alert, and tensions were at an all-time high. What with the new threat (“She calls herself a Queen? Please. Anyone can stack ice cubes and call it a castle,” the Queen had said more than twice), there had been little time for... anything. There was barely enough room in town for the Evil Queen, much less the Snow Queen, and there definitely was not enough room for her giant snowman minions. No one had any clue as to how to get to the ice palace that had somehow erected itself overnight; even the Evil Queen's balls of fire had little effect, and the frozen landscape was slowly seeping into the town proper.

After several stumbles and literal falls (“Land legs failin' ya again?” she'd smirked), Snow, Charming, the Queen, Emma, hell- everyone had decided to regroup and figure out a plan. Before they could get dragged to Granny's for yet another snow strategy session, Killian had hauled Emma away by the elbow for much-needed rest and warmth. No funny business, as they say. That's what he told himself.

Emma's fingers were so stiff that she was unable to open her door; gently, he took the ridiculously large key fob and opened it for her. She accepted this with a happy sigh, momentarily resting her forehead against his shoulder.

Henry was sprawled out on the bed with one of his electronic gaming devices in his face; he took one look at the two of them and a look of concern overtook his countenance. 

“Mom? What happened, is everyone-”

“Everyone's fine, kid. We're just... tired. And freezing.” Emma sighed wearily and flopped down on her bed, her arms splayed out to the sides. Killian shrugged out of his coat, allowing it to drop to the floor. He knelt at the bedside and began unlacing her boots, hoping she would not cause a fuss over his solicitous behavior.

“Is- is Regina okay?”

A large sighed emanated somewhere above him. “She's fine, kid. Quite frankly, I think she's probably doing too much. You know, to keep herself busy.”

“Yeah,” Henry replied pensively. Killian looked over and saw the boy eying the two of them. He hopped up and shoved his feet into his shoes. “Mom, I'm gonna go keep her company tonight. I bet she could use some cheering up.”

“You're such a good kid,” Emma mumbled, sounding sleepy. Killian lifted the boot and began chafing her foot through her socks. He heard a guttural groan and honestly, he tried not to think on it, but dammit. He had become so attuned to her sounds, and the groan was the one that he could never get enough of because it set his mind to wandering and wondering- what she sounded like in the throes, whether she had different moans for pleasure or pain.

“I'll see you guys later,” he heard the boy call out, then there was the gentle click of the lock being turned. Bless that boy.

Killian removed his own boots and then set about creating some warmth. He walked over to the metal appartus that created heat- radiator?- and kicked it to life. 

“Hey, c'mere,” Emma called out. “Warmth. Need warmth. Maybe coffee.”

“As you wish.” There was a stillness in the air, a sort of anticipation. Two days' worth of it-- through snow and fighting and squabbling over details with the others-- four more days of it, what with his reckless idiocy and a sleeping curse-- two years of it-- several lifetimes of it. All this anticipation and longing.

He was fucking done with it. Tonight. Tonight, he would do something about it. As long as she would let him, he would do whatever she allowed.

He sat next to her on the bed and she immediately turned to him, yanking on his arm to bring him down until they were facing each other. 

“Hey there.”

“Hello.” He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear, noticing how cold it was. He sat up, putting his weight on his elbow and brace, leaning over to place his lips against her ear. He blew warmth across it and kissed the lobe, lightly scraping his teeth against the edges. He smiled as he felt her breath catch. “You need immediate warming, Princess.”

“So warm me up, then, Pirate.” Her voice was muffled against his neck, and he felt his own breath catching at the sensation. She pressed her cold nose against his collarbone and he hissed at the pleasant sting. Nerves tingling with that horridly wonderful anticipation, he paused, wondering what she would do next.

“Killian,” she breathed into his skin, and he opened his mouth to reply but then she was pawing at him, absolutely tearing at his waistcoat. He looked down to see her face, to see whether she wanted him to do the same, but her face was hidden by the golden curtain of her hair. Shifting his hook under him to prevent her accidentally hurting herself in her escalating fervor, he reached out with his good hand and cupped her jaw, gently lifting her countenance to his. His mouth reached hers, making a play for reverence, but she wasn't having it. Her lips sought and fought, her tongue lashing out, and he could not help the stifled moan that escaped. 

“Killian,” she said again, her voice tired and coarse, making his pulse thrum in his veins. That hoarseness- the need inherent- ignited the bit of energy he'd saved for this exact moment. He became that need, hand roaming, lips pressing, all feather-light. He had to keep it gentle and lovely else he'd turn into the ravenous fucking pirate that was done with waiting.

“Killian. Hook. I can't- I don't want to-” She was speaking in between kissing and nipping at him, at his lips, his neck, that delicious spot where his pulse ached with the torment, making him want to just grab and thrust. Somehow, her words pushed through the haze of lust descending on him enough for him to pause.

“What, love,” he whisper-growled into her ear, feeling her shudder under his body which was somehow hovering over hers. “What are you trying to say?” He felt an overwhelming sense of impending dread that she was going to request he stop, and though it would kill him, he'd do it. 

“I just- I'm so tired.” She sighed heavily, burying her face in his neck, her hair tickling at his nose. 

“Aye,” he said, abruptly deflated- but he understood. He'd be lying if he said he felt wide awake himself. He lifted to his elbows, his hook swiping at the hair haloing around them both, gently, ever gently. “Let's tuck ourselves in, and we can-”

“No, no,” she murmured, still in his neck, her voice rough with exhaustion and rasping against his pulse. “I don't want to sleep. I want to-” She faltered, seemingly flustered in her exhaustion.

“What, Swan? Tell me,” he whispered tenderly.

“Just- I don't wanna make love right now.” Oh. Damn. “I'm too tired. Can we just- can you just-”

“Yes,” he sighed, beginning to roll over and hoping he didn't sound too disappointed.

“No,” she laughed, pulling him back atop. Then she surprised the hell out of him by scraping her teeth, hard, from the corner of his jaw and on down his neck. He could feel the _scrick_ as teeth scratched along beard, could feel every fucking hair sending tingles down his neck and down down down to... hullo, there.

“Dammit, Hook. Can we just fuck? Please?” He was surprised, again, so much so that he froze. Her lips continued to whisper desperately into the taut tendons of his throat. “You can be all gentle and loving. Later. Now, I just-” He felt her tongue- gods, the wet and the tickle- trace up his collarbone, her fingers deftly working at the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Right now, I just need to feel. I'm so damned numb from cold, and I want to feel you. Is that... I mean, please. Can you just... make me feel again?”

“Well,” he murmured, burying his grin and his fingers into her hair. “I cannot possibly refuse such a sweetly-worded request.” He acknowledged somewhere in his head that he might feel the pangs of regret that he did not take his time. Later; after. In the vague recesses of his mind that were still encumbered by and capable of rational thought, perhaps, but those were swiftly losing out to pure sensation, to the haze of arousal and frustration and the need to fuck, the need to take, to give and lick and offer and flick- his shirt undone, her sweater sailing across the room, corset-like contraption ripped by hook; gone and gods. _Gods_ , the softness and cake and _fuck_.

“Yes,” she told him. His palm swept along pebbled flesh, across hardened nipples, puckered, darker flesh, thumb soothing circles, pointer finger coming together with thumb to pinch and gasp and her gasp was everything, he had to taste it, taste her, that tongue again, teeth at his neck, the hiss shooting down spine and his hard thrusts against her thigh, his restless hand seeking and searching lower as mouth slid down, seeking sweet curves that made him want to revere, to caress, to kiss and gasp again and again. Could feel her legs tightening, pulsing, knew inner muscles were clenching and grasping and seeking him out by her rhythmic breathing, breaths shallow and palms pressing into his shoulders.

“Oh,” she said, and, “yes.” Prolonged gasps of disbelief. “Yes, _there_ , do _that_ , oh God, oh _fuck_ ,” and he liked the blasphemy nearly as well as the curse.

“Hook,” she sighed, and he growled at the moniker, never enjoying it as much as when breathed by this woman, never, never, never, never ( _thrust, thrust, thrust, thrust_ in time with the pulse. His pulse and her pulsing muscles) and waistbands breached, and-

“No knickers?”

“No.”

“Good. Me neither.”

“Good.”

Then she was gripping, hard, not at all gentle, which was glorious and he was starting to get rough, his grip at her flesh much too hard but she was gasping every time his fingers curled or slid so again and again, “don't stop, God, _don't_ ” and he wanted to taste but her fingers in his hair pulled him from his descent, up to her mouth, her tongue on his and the pulse of it all, his tongue counterpoint to hers and clever counter-rhythm to his fingers sliding in her and around her and she was just “God, Hook, God God oh God, oh yes oh yes _oh yes oh yes_ please please please, _Killian now_ ” and a man can only take so much and just _yes_.

He was home. He was there, teeth gritting, go slow slow slow but she thrust up and released a soft, guttural moan, her breath hitched and the gasp, the surprised gasp he knew he knew he was a surprise, perhaps a bit large but not really all that- “oh God, fuck- you're so- ohmy _god_ ”- and her knees bent and he slid in further and just don't take too hard, do not wreck her just yet, bite your lip, pain pain pain no that's her biting at his mouth, gasping in and on his lips and and and thhhhrust oh gods oh gods _fuck_. Fucking _wreck_ it. Harder and harder and that sound, that sound of fucking, gods alive this is thrust thrust thrusting-

“There, oh. _There_. Don't stop don't stop don't stop oh God.” Gasps of disbelieving pleasure from her and maybe him and just oh. Oh oh _oh_. Rending fabric, fucking hook, fucking Hook, “fucking Hook,” and the squeezing, no Emma, no love, stop the don't ever stop the squeezing and _yes_. “Yes.” _Yes_. 

“Sorry,” were his muffled words, and he honestly did not remember falling atop her, was only made aware of his position because of that maddening cake smell, somewhat less distracting now because he was only mostly incapable of piecing thoughts and words together.

“Sorry for what?” she said, her voice rough with laughter and this content sort of languor which only made him smug in turn. He smiled into her neck, rubbing his scruff on her skin and enjoying her responding tremor. 

“I...” He disengaged, wincing at the thousands of nerve endings he felt in the movement. “I- bloody hell, I've ripped the sheets. And the mattress! Granny is going to kill me.”

“Oh my God, don't bring up Granny right now,” she laughed. She turned, curling into him, scratching lightly across his chest as her hand came to rest somewhere above his heart. His arm wrapped around her, his hand coming to rest on her bare hip. He kissed the top of her hair, caring not one whit as it tangled in his beard.

“Indeed, bad form. As was my... roughness. Sorry, love. Pirate, you know.”

“My pirate,” she responded, and he dearly loved the sound of it, the automaticity of it. “And I mean, I told you to, so. Don't even apologize for that.”

“Next time...”

“Next time, you have my permission to be slow and gentle,” she murmured into his chest, her heavy breaths tickling the hairs and becoming deeper and slower. 

“And teasing.”

“Mm hmm.”

“You may just regret agreeing to that later.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Sleep, love.”

“'Kay.”

He turned his face to the window, watching the snow pile in little drifts at the corners. Emma's breathing turned rhythmic, indicating slumber. She sighed deeply and his arm tightened. Taking care not to disturb her, he gently twisted his hook off and dropped it off the side of the bed. After drawing the sheet around them, he settled in, closing his eyes and allowing a sense of contentment to steal over him. For now, anyway. When they awoke, there would be continued strife; this he knew. 

What he also knew was that he would be able to face any of it, all that this world and the next would throw at him. None of it mattered, not when he knew that this- this right here- was what he could have, _did_ have, when all of it- whatever came at him, at them- was done.

Killian, it seemed, had finally managed to keep something he'd wanted, with very little damage. That couldn't be helped.

Pirate, you know.

**Author's Note:**

> heya, thanks for reading my first OUAT fic, man. this is one of those "yo, how did my smutty drabble idea turn into 11k words" fics, whoops.
> 
> i must thank spanglemakernumbers and DMH for reading and offering opinions.


End file.
